Save Grace (Blood Legion MC Book 2)

by Rie Warren

  I bent my head, resting my forehead between her shoulder blades. “Had that built up all day.”

  “I’ll say.” Her hand curled back, and she stroked my thigh.

  After placing a kiss in the center of her back, I withdrew from her. She gasped, and I stayed behind her for a moment to watch my thick white seed drip from her flushed pink slit.

  Fuck. That looked good.

  I’d have another damn load ready for her in minutes.

  With tender touches now that we were both satiated—at least for the moment—I pulled her from her pillowy nest. I settled her against me, her head on my shoulder, her belly at my side.

  “My legs are all quivery.” Her words whispered out breathily.

  “My whole body feels like jelly.”

  “Really?” Her hand wandered down my torso to my cock.

  Wet and heavy, the length thickened into a hard arch beneath her toying fingers.

  “That’s definitely not jelly,” she murmured.

  “And if you keep doing that you’re gonna end up with another load all over your hand. So stop it so I can take care of you.”

  “Bossy.”

  Pouncing up above her, I took her mouth with mine. Then I sat against the head of the bed and wedged her feet in my lap so I could massage her sore soles and ankles and arches.

  While I took care of her tired feet, her head lolled dreamily, and she murmured nothing in particular.

  And I smiled at everything that was her.

  Then I pulled her into the lee of my thighs and dug my thumbs into her lower back that always ached at the end of the day.

  My cock wedged up between us, mighty and stiff. I ignored the thing, concentrating on Grace’s small sounds of humming pleasure as I wrung every last bit of tension from her body.

  “You’re so damn good at that,” she said.

  I kissed the nape of her neck. “You know it’s just an excuse to get my hands on you again.”

  “You’re a liar. You love me. And you love taking care of me.”

  “Yeah.” After rearranging us once more so we lay down together, I said a silent thank you for her.

  For her putting up with me and all my broodiness and non-talking ways.

  Sounds from the party swilled through the cracked window from down the road.

  I bet Angel was saying his own thank you about Mercy too.

  Never would’ve thought coming to Blood Legion three years ago on a mission to get rid of Venom—the corrupt MC prez—would have led to this . . . happiness.

  Happiness, and another hard-on.

  “Are you thinking about the wedding?” Grace swirled fingertips up and down the tats on the arm I stretched so I could skim fingers over the big mounded dome of her belly.

  “Yeah.” I squinted down at her.

  “Do you think one day you and I will?” she asked, her eyes direct on mine.

  Do you think you and I will get married?

  Why did her question set up such a knocking in my heart?

  “I hope so. Soon as I make sure you won’t say no to me.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Her smile shone brighter than any flash bang or bonfire.

  “You don’t?” That fast hammering in my heart knocked harder than ever.

  “Nope.”

  “Use your words, Grace,” I teased.

  But before she could say anything else, her hand flew to her tum, and she frowned. “Oof!”

  “What is it?”

  “Baby’s kicking.” She latched onto my wrist. “Want to feel it?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  I watched, awestruck, as Grace guided my palm to one side of her stomach.

  I held my breath and waited, watching her eyes and the concentration on her face.

  Oh. That squirminess beneath her taut skin started before a sharp kick bumped against my palm.

  “Holy shit!” I exclaimed.

  She laughed. “At least, I think that’s a foot. Could be an elbow.”

  I kept my hand on her, enthralled. “Active, huh?”

  “I think you woke baby up.”

  “Did I hurt her?” Leaning above Grace, I spread both wide palms over her tummy.

  She dipped her head to the opposite side. “We don’t know it’s a girl. And how . . . how can you accept this so easily?”

  “Because I love every part of you, sweetheart. Look at me.” I lifted my hands up to frame her face. “You’ve given me grace.”

  She caressed my cheek. “And you’re the only father this baby will ever know.”

  Sinking down beside Grace, I drew her into my embrace. “Come here.”

  The kisses went on for minutes and, miraculously, I felt another kick from her belly to my abdomen.

  “Do you think that means she approves?” Lips wet, I lingered over the plump curve of Grace’s mouth, dragging my gaze to hers.

  Her smile meant everything. Meant the entire damn world to me.

  Then her eyes twinkled. “And by the looks of it, baby will have plenty of uncles and at least one aunty in Mercy unless we can get those other—”

  “Those other assholes.”

  “Killian!”

  Non-apologetic shrug.

  “If we can get the other men hooked up,” she finished.

  “I wouldn’t hold out any hope for Saint and Honoré after the way she blanked him though.”

  “I kind of blanked you at first too.”

  “Kind of?” Rearing up above Grace, I scowled at her. “Woman. That’s the damn understatement of the century.”

  She giggled. “You persevered. Maybe Saint will too.”

  “Ha. The trick will be getting Revenge not hooked up with the Doublemint twins.” I slid back down to Grace and tucked blankets around our waists. “Baby will have Mistress Bunny too. Aunty Bunny, I mean.”

  “And Aunty Bunny.” She kissed me, a pleased smile coursing over her lips and clinging to mine. “Oh, I love you, Killian.”

  “Heart and mind . . . and always.”

  Keep reading for a sexy sample from Bo, Bad Boys of Retribution MC 3 . . .

  Meet Captain Bo Maverick, Killian Slade’s brother-in-arms!

  Bad Boys of Retribution MC, complete bestselling series:

  Four alpha males fight for their feisty women. A dark-ops agent, a male stripper, a former Marine, and a tattoo artist. Each one hotter than the last.

  Love comes in many forms, but so does danger.

  HUNTER

  KINKAID

  BO

  COLETRANE

  Bo Maverick is former Force Recon and a force to be reckoned with.

  Bo:

  I’m a lover, not a fighter. Yeah, right. Talk about bullshit. I’ve been fighting all my life, and I know zip about love. Frankly, I don’t want to. More than bullets whizzing past my head or the very real possibility of ending up dead, love scares the shit out of me. I’m used to guns and killing, blood and dust.

  Lust.

  That’s what I feel for this woman, my goddamn shrink, Veronica. Doctor Hartley digs inside my head. She asks me questions, which I never answer. I’d much rather take the smart, sexy Doc to bed, but I can’t because of our clinical relationship.

  My last Force Recon mission destroyed any semblance of humanity I had left. Those little triggers go off all the time now. When I’m asleep. When I’m awake. When the memories are raw. I bolt up, at knife point again, but there’s no enemy now.

  Just Veronica and me.

  Veronica:

  Veronica. Doctor Hartley. I told Bo to call me Ronnie like everyone else, but he refuses. He shows up like he has a cattle prod shoved up his ass and sits through the allotted hour for his counseling session impervious to every approach. He’s powerful, forceful, explosive. He doesn’t scare me.

  My marine doesn’t speak, but his sharp gaze pierces me all the same. He watches me with all the greed of a hunger never sated, a need never fulfilled. A desire never explored. He stows his secrets safely away, but I�
��m patient. I’ll get to him if he doesn’t get to me first.

  And when I have him? I’ll want him forever. I know this. But I can’t. His past might be complicated, but mine is a minefield, one that will blow up in our faces before all is said and done.

  Too bad. We could be so good together.

  Chapter One

  Bo

  I GASPED FOR BREATH, fighting against the arms holding me down. The arms changed, becoming slender and pale with fingernails that dragged down the length of my body. My struggling ceased. My body seized up in a knot of hot arousal. The fingers teased, landing with soft strokes on the muscles of my lower groin. My cock lifted, hard and rearing against my stomach as the fingers coasted lightly up and down my aching shaft, never reaching the swelling head.

  My hips kicked. I needed more contact. The woman was driving me out of my mind. The distinctly feminine hand finally wrapped around the heavy base of my cock. I grunted in relief then hissed as warm wet lips stretched over the helmet. I gripped the pillow beneath my head in both hands, trying to keep my body still even though all I wanted to do was force my dick straight into the throat of the woman softly coddling the tip of my shaft with her sleek lips and massaging tongue.

  Finally she sucked me farther into her mouth, one inch, two, three, four. She stopped halfway and looked up at me with cat slits for eyes. Her body took form, her face, too. The lush lips I impaled smiled with devilish intent as the woman’s cheeks hollowed, and she sucked back up my cock.

  Fuck!

  I woke with a start, my heartbeat pounding through the pulsing veins of my dick. Before the dream had morphed, I’d been back in the desert, my body and my brain detached. Black and white torture—I’d lived through it. Moments when I believed I’d be executed, blindfolded, waiting for the final shot only to be blinded again by the sheer white sun when the mask was removed and I was left, kneeling, stoically not crying while they pissed rings around me in the sizzling sand. Afternoon delights that included near-asphyxiation at the hands of my captors while I fought the natural-born fear of suffocation. They’d wanted information I’d never give up even if it meant they took me apart piece by piece.

  I was a military man. A marine. Ooo-rah!

  I flicked on the light beside my bed.

  Despite the earlier night terrors, my body was firmly linked to the now. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. I didn’t know what was worse: the memories of fake executions or the mind-blazing arousal knifing though me.

  My dick didn’t care either way.

  I kept my hands locked on the pillow. If I so much as brushed a fingertip against my cock I’d shoot off all over the covers. I hadn’t had a wet dream since I first learned what to do with my dick other than piss from it. Wasn’t about to start now, especially when the starring role in this little erotic fantasy had been none other than Ronnie. Somehow she’d replaced the usual fury and fear and fighting of my nightmares with one hell of a hot show.

  I tasted blood in my mouth. I’d bitten my lip, wishing it was hers.

  Jeeesus.

  Ronnie. Fuck that bullshit. Veronica. Doctor Hartley. It wasn’t normal to have erotic dreams about a headshrinker I’d only met once, was it? If the woman wanted to crawl inside my mind and take up residence in my body, she could consider the job done.

  It’d been too long since I’d had a woman. That was the only reasonable explanation for the fact I wanted to fuck Veronica to within an inch of her life, pound her into the mattress or through a door, find out if the hair on her pussy was the exact same vibrant shade of red as the strict tight bun on her head. The suit, the attitude. She’d put paid to that player Tail and spun me ass over end with just a few curt words.

  She’d earned my grudging respect and apparently a massive boner that wouldn’t go down.

  Hunter, on the other hand, would die by my hands for putting me up to this therapy shit. With a sexy chick no less, who looked like she’d just as soon bust my balls as ride my cock. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her like that, not if I was supposed to spill my stupid guts to her.

  I went for easy, easier, easiest. Clearly Veronica Hartley wasn’t that, and I didn’t need any more challenges in my life.

  When I deemed it safe enough to move my hands without setting off a cock-explosion, I grabbed my phone and glared at the screen. Zero three hundred hours. Three hours until dawn. I suffered from a huge erection. And I had an appointment with Doc Hartley at ten o’clock.

  Fuck my cock.

  Shoving off the damp sheets, there was nothing else for it. I couldn’t shut down my brain at this early hour, and I didn’t want to start tanking back the coffee just yet. The vodka would have to wait until it was a reasonably decent time of day. I’d been trying to get my shit together, which meant not going ballistic whenever a backfiring car sounded like incoming fire aimed at my head or hitting the bottle before . . . say . . . seventeen hundred hours.

  I’d set myself up as a personal trainer. I didn’t have much in the way of equipment yet, but I didn’t need too many extras. I believed in the old school ethic, not spinning classes and treadmills. All I needed was a back forty, a nice spring day—although shit got even more fun and reminded me of boot camp when the rain came pouring down to create a muddy swamp perfect for a little bust-yo-ass obstacle course. Tires, concrete blocks, two-by-fours, and absolute mud runs.

  I wasn’t about to cater to pussies too scared to get their hands dirty by doing it the old-fashioned way.

  Didn’t have much in the way of a client list yet either, but I wasn’t afraid of hustling, and I’d hit up every veteran hangout I could find. Brodie and Boomer Steele—the head honchos of Retribution MC—had helped, putting out the word with their Chrome and Steele Auto Parts regulars.

  Hunter hit up the Mt. Pleasant police force. It was weird, people having my back, some of them little more than strangers. Sometimes it felt good. Sometimes it became motherfucking claustrophobic. Leaving the Marines had been like leaving my family, but surprisingly, others had taken me in. It hadn’t been a mistake throwing my patch in with the MC.

  But Hunter was still on my shit list.

  After pulling on a pair of gym shorts and my sneakers, I moved through the house on silent feet. After three months inhabiting the place, I’d finally stopped checking around all the corners before entering a room, or sitting against the farthest wall so I could see all entry points at any given time.

  Paranoia, thy name is Bo Maverick.

  I still didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I oughtta stop checking that shit. Tanned, tattooed, dark auburn hair cut close, no muss, no fuss because morning muster used to happen when I was deep in the z-z-z-zone.

  Those were the days.

  My last botched operation with Force Recon had done such a number on my head I was still a scrambled mess. At least the house I’d bought on the foreclosure auction block was in better shape. It wasn’t a huge spread, but I didn’t need more than the basics, and it was a damn sight better than my last containerized housing unit by a long shot. The small ranch was up-to-date with a decent yard and a high wooden fence in one of Mt. Pleasant’s older neighborhoods off of Rifle Range Road. Maybe there’d been a rifle range here decades ago. Now the only one was in my backyard.

  Howdy, neighbors.

  The area was supposed to be prime for raising kids, not that I was anywhere near daddy material. But maybe someday. If I lived that long.

  The neighbors had done the whole welcome wagon thing with piping hot casseroles and platters of brownies. I’d almost nut-punched the civvy idiot who’d thrust out his knuckles to bump mine, shouting, “Semper fi!” in my face. The only tour of duty that asshole had ever seen was the video game while I bore the scars on my skin.

  The Brady Bunch neighbors had backed off after that. Couldn’t blame them. I liked to oil my M40 while I sat on the front porch. They probably thought I was more unhinged than I really was.

  Good impression, I did not make it.

  Oh well. What can I say
? I have problems making nice with the friendlies.

  My ’56 Blackbird sat in the garage, babied and pampered and ready to rumble. I actually had edible food in the fridge, an entire set of dishes and silverware, a bed with a comforter instead of my military-issued woobie. Six rooms, four walls, a roof over my head Uncle Sam wasn’t paying for. Thus, this place was my palace.

  I made my way out the sliding glass doors, ghosted across the back porch, walked onto the dewy grass. Three thirty a.m. and all was quiet in the hood; only the waning moon and the night insects kept me company. Silvery light outlined tall trees. Flowers from the previous owners had started blooming along the bricked in borders. I stretched in the cool air, knowing I’d be working up a sweat soon enough.

  Not an ounce of fat covered me, just slabs of solid muscle. That was how I aimed to keep it. I stood a good six foot three, broad through the top, narrow through the waist, long and muscled in my legs. If I was serious about this personal trainer biz I had to be my own walking, talking billboard.

  I worked out the big guns first, my shoulders and arms. Weighted squats came next until my glutes burned and my thighs quaked. Lying on a backward incline over a plank of wood with a rough concrete block held to my chest, I went at the crunches, digging deep and putting every ounce of energy into each abdomen-biting move. Wrestling or sparring was always a good way to keep fit, but I didn’t have a partner at this ass-crack-of-dawn hour so I did another rep before stretching it all out tai chi style.

  I rounded out my routine with a five-mile run. No iPod. No tunes. No distractions. Just my feet pounding on pavement.

  And the goddamn unstoppable circus in my head.

  Last night was the first time I’d seen Veronica Hartley. She’d busted into Retribution MC, a woman on a mission to put me in the hot seat, busting me for making appointments I never kept. Ronnie. That’s what Hunter had said. I’d expected a man, not the soft-voice over pure steel pretty lady shrink.